


unsatisfactory

by jjongnite



Category: BIGB4NG, BIGBANG - Fandom
Genre: Depression, Fame, Mental Illness, Other, this is real sad, vent - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-12
Updated: 2019-06-12
Packaged: 2020-05-02 05:00:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19192312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jjongnite/pseuds/jjongnite
Summary: Jiyong is tired. Public demands weigh a little too heavy on his shoulders nowadays.





	unsatisfactory

**Author's Note:**

> this was something i wrote July 2018, and boy was i sad. this isn’t a light fic, so please take care of yourself.

Jiyong didn’t understand it. He didn’t understand why it happened, when he asked, why he looked himself in the mirror one day and decided he wasn’t enough. It was all the whys that bothered him, never the hows or the whos. He knew all about those. He just didn’t know why. It was driving him crazy. 

At 30, Jiyong should be settled down, maybe have a few kids and a pretty little wife. At least, that’s what everyone thinks. It’s all about the public for Jiyong, it always has been. It’s how his job works. He was training for years to mend his shape into something appealing to the public, only to make it through to be their toy. He just can’t be enough for them, these days. 

Walking into his house tonight, everything feels heavier than usual. His feet catch on the doorframe and he almost trips, but lazily catches himself. His jacket hangs from his shoulder, hair still styled in a perfect curl from today’s schedules. Jiyong’s lazy crawls through the main hall seem to echo, the squeak of his shoes reminding him of the heaviness they hold. He pulls them off after five attempts due to the soles slipping through his shaky hands before continuing to the living room. The TV is turned off, and the only light comes from the open window by the couch. Moonlight is his only company tonight.

Jiyong almost wishes for someone, a friend or stranger to come in, but he can’t think straight anymore so he doesn’t. The moon will have to be enough. He misses a lot of people, he decides in the darkness of the kitchen as he leans against the counter debating whether or not to get a drink. He wonders where they went, how they’re feeling, if they have ever gone through what he’s had to for the past three months. Every night it’s the same thing. As the clock continues on it’s journey, Jiyong decides it’s time for that drink. It takes him more effort than he thought to tear open the door to the fridge, just enough effort that he would be embarrassed if he could feel anything other than numbness for a second. 

As he makes the long hike up his stairs that suddenly feel narrow in his distorted perception, he sips the half full cup of whiskey. It tastes bitter, but at least he knows he can still taste. Jiyong doesn’t even know when the temperature of the liquid became room temperature. He shoves the door to the bathroom open, his face automatically staring back at him. Jiyong stands for a while, he didn’t keep track of time, studying. He makes a mental note of how deep the shadows under his eyes are becoming, the way his eyes look plain and cold. He sees the veins in his hands and arms, taking another note to possibly, just maybe try and eat more. He’ll forget that note within the hour. Jiyong finds that out of everything, his hair is the most put-together thing about him, even as it begins to fall and crumble out of its frayed position. He would touch it, just to feel the bleached ends, but he can’t lift his hand from the chilling tile of the counter. He stands, studying.

By the time he leaves, the space around him is pitch black. He stumbles to the bedroom, falling against the bottom of the bed. He sits against it, squinting at the clock’s red numbers. He missed 11:11, but only by 5 hours and 35 minutes. Not bad, he would think if his mind would let him. Jiyong would’ve wished for a break, maybe seeing the people he loves, maybe something to feel. Jiyong doesn’t have much to wish for, not according to the public. He has everything: money, girls, friends, success; what else could a top star want? 

Jiyong sighs, he has to be out of the house in 25 minutes. 24, now. He gets up, knocking the empty glass next to him over. He finished his drink maybe an hour ago. Jiyong doesn’t remember that. He doesn’t remember the taste, and suddenly wants another glass. After shrugging off more layers and changing into a loose, gray, and worn shirt, he can finally breathe. A physical weight seems to lift as the emotional one lingers. Jiyong drags his tired limbs down the stairs, into the kitchen. Jiyong uses the last of his energy on opening the door to the fridge, taking a breath of the frigid air to come from it, and shutting it as he realizes he left the bottle on the counter. He pours another new glass, and slides down the wall. As the drink swirls and shakes in his cup from the shaking hands holding it, he hears the door shake from down the hall. An earthquake, it could have been, but Jiyong wouldn’t know. He’s too tired to react, too heavy. He decides for the final time, he’s unsatisfactory. Work harder. He’ll work harder. 

He blinks, and heads out the door and into the frigid night and to the car. Jiyong knows how to do this. He’s unsatisfactory in every other aspect, maybe, but he’s the world’s greatest at portraying a smile and character that isn’t him. It’s all in the training.


End file.
